Catscratch Fever
by Auto Pilote
Summary: Cas' first time sick, at the bunker. Dean takes care of him while Sam's out getting medicine. No real plot, just cuddles and kitten analogies/metaphor. Mostly a fluffy fic. maybe continued later. Destiel (Catscratch Fever is actually a good song. you should listen to it while reading.)


**Sickness-inspired drabble.**

* * *

Dean, in his younger years, used to wish he was a cat.

He had hated school, and had often envied the cats he saw stalking the roadsides whenever he drove by and saw them curled up in the porches of homes, on welcome mats under blankets of sunlight, hatched with the shadows of the bars of the windows. He'd often envied them; though he had the same freedom to come and go as he pleased, he hadn't a home or the time to curl up lazily, and bathe in the windowsill sun.

So it was no wonder to him as to why watching Cas was reminiscent of this old envy.

Cas, fallen, had taken sick quicker than a child in preschool, probably out of having the worse immune system. Sam half-heartedly suggested exposing him to chicken pox and the measles just to avoid it in the future, but Dean would have none of it, refusing to hear about anything of the life until Cas was better at least.

"You should stop worrying over him, he'll be alright," Sam scoffed, trying to alleviate Dean's worries. "He'll be fine, I promise. Just give his fever some time to break."

In Sam's absence (he'd gone to the store, after debating with Dean what kind of cough syrup to buy) Dean slipped in and out of the room they'd given Cas. It was the one with the windows. Cas, in his fever-induced delirium, insisted that his brothers and sisters should be able to watch over him (here he had gestured to the clouded skies, and Dean didn't have the heart to remind him). Dean had taken to checking in on him every few minutes, sometimes drawing up a chair to dab at his forehead with a cold cloth.

This time he stepped in the doorway, his worries eased as he found Cas' temperature had broken. _At last._

He was sick in bed with a cold, a stuffy nose, and a mountain of tissues that had mysteriously fit into one box only hours prior.

He took a step back from the bed; somewhat expecting to see what Sam had looked like after his many haunting 104º fevers. Those nights still worried him, wondering what he would have done if John had returned when Sammy was on the cusp of a death that Dean's medical inexperience had put him in. Instead, he was strangely reminded of a cat dozing in the midday sun.

He had arched his back, stretching in the sunlight with his face scrunched up, nose twitching invisible whiskers. His breath was congested, the sniffling noise that caught in each breath sounding suspiciously like purring. Every now and then he would rouse to shake his disoriented head, lick his lips and somehow catch the back of his hands too.

Sighing, Dean shook his head to himself. Cas had curled up so many times in his sleep he was in danger of falling out of bed again. He slid a hand under Cas' back and another under the crook of his knees, feeling him rouse with a shuddered stretch in cradled arms. Like most cats Dean had encountered, Cas was strangely lighter and heavier than he presumed, resisting his attempts yet released easily from gravity.

He lifted him up, and in an attempt to rearrange the sheets Cas managed to slide from his grip. Rolling his eyes, Dean hefted and tossed the sonuvabitch over his shoulder, supporting him mainly by the base of his tailbone. He imagined if Cas had a tail, it would be flicking around (/about?) in irritancy. In all this Cas managed to knick his arm with one of his uncut nails, and Dean drew in a quick breath, biting down the sharp pain.

Whatever sickness Cas had caught, Dean supposed he was catching it too. His eyes felt a little heavier in his skull, and the world seemed to tip whichever way just enough to make him dizzy. Hoarseness in his throat signaled the beginnings of a cough.

He laid Cas back onto the bed, having nicely remade the sheets. Cas, the selfish bastard, gave him a glare and stood up on the bed, kicking the sheets back to the base of the bed, pawing them away with his feet, standing and wobbling on his knees

With an exasperated sigh, Dean sat down on the bed, hitting his head against the wall. He swore once, rubbing his head. "Just not worth it if it's not a headboard," he joked, and by the look of Cas' expression, he didn't get it. He didn't really expect him to.

Cas gave him a rueful look as Dean stole Cas' pre-warmed spot, slouching into the pillows. Cas shoved him slightly aside with a foot, and knocked Dean's scalp against the headboard.

"There," he growled, stifling a moaning yawn. Dean cracked a grin. _Cheeky bastard._

"Where's Sam?" Cas managed to ask after a cough, his voice comically lower still with the stuffy nose.

"He's gonna get you some medicine, and some canned soup to heat up. Tomato and rice," Dean muttered, feeling around under the pillow. He produced a half-empty beer, and gave Cas a quizzical look, to which Cas only replied, "Alcohol kills germs, right?"

Dean allowed himself a short, tired laugh. Cas searched for another blanket, turning around in many circles. He searched the bed with sleepy eyes, before realizing Dean already had it. Dean tipped the bottle to Cas, toasting the thought as he downed most of the rest of its contents. The bitter substance nipped at his mind with numbing bites and scratched at his throat. Cas made a possessive swipe for the bottle, spilling its contents. Dean swore again and as he mopped it up, Cas dropped into his lap to lick at the drips on his chin. His tongue – or was it his cheek? was like sandpaper to Dean's skin. He didn't mind, although Cas' breath still smelled lightly of a tuna fish sandwich. His nose was cold and wet, and his five o'clock shadow whiskers tickled against his skin. Cas curled up there, settled against him in, just partially underneath the sheets.

With a congested sigh of his own, Dean made no resistance, and wrapped an arm around Cas. His fingers made their way into Castiel's hair, the pad of his fingers kneading into the skin and playing with the short, soft hair just behind Cas' ears. When Cas mumbled a question about it, he shushed him and muttered something about getting better.

Once or twice Cas got up to rearrange himself into Dean's warmth, tangling himself in sheets and sprawling out under the sun's rays. Once or twice he leaned in and he reached up to lay a kiss on Dean's mouth, but in his disorientation, he missed just slight of his mark, and ended up nuzzling his chin instead. He tried to hide his mistake, drawing/lapping his tongue along his jaw line.

"We should get a cat," he remarked after a long time, to which Cas hissed possessively. He amended that he didn't want another pet. When he pawed him for another answer, Dean answered, looking up into Cas' face above him, "I've got you."

Cas was sure he meant it as enough preoccupation, but kept the thought to himself.


End file.
